


Can't Walk Away

by almostafantasia



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Christmas, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Wound Cleaning, bed sharing, eventual spooning, post-S3, soft and angsty and a tiny bit festive, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: Weeks after walking away from each other, Villanelle shows up at Eve’s house on Christmas Eve dressed for the occasion and covered in blood.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 27
Kudos: 376





	Can't Walk Away

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to anybody unable to see their friends and family this holiday season. Stay safe and remember that your mental health is just as important as your physical health ❤️

It is quite convenient that when Villanelle finds herself bleeding from a knife wound in her upper arm, she is only a few streets away from where Eve lives.

Convenient, but not coincidental. The reason she is so close, after all, it’s because she is in the area to check up on Eve.

Several weeks have passed since she last saw Eve on that night on the bridge. That fateful night, that romantic night, watched by the blink of a thousand stars in the clear sky overhead. On a bridge, of all places. Villanelle is more than aware of the romantic significance of a bridge - she used to have to walk across Ponts des Arts in Paris to get to her favourite patisserie from her apartment, rolling her eyes at the masses of padlocks left there by hopeful lovers, while secretly wondering why she didn’t deserve the same. It’s a place of meeting, a place of passing. A single connection between two opposing sides.

Villanelle often wonders what would have happened if she had let her own feelings govern her actions that night. A kiss, perhaps? Some kind of confession of love? Would they have walked away together, hand-in-hand, to the same side of the bridge? Would they have spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms, spent the last few weeks at each other’s side?

Would she be inside with Eve right now, bundled up in ugly sweaters as they sip on mugs of warm mulled wine and watch an awful Christmas movie, instead of standing out in the cold, bleeding through the sleeve of the Father Christmas outfit she picked up yesterday from the costume shop?

Of course, Villanelle has  _ seen _ Eve since that day - checking up on her every so often just to make sure that she’s still safe. Villanelle doubts that there is anybody who cares enough about slimy cockroaches like Raymond and Dasha enough to want to avenge their deaths, but she keeps an eye on Eve just in case. Villanelle lurks from afar, concealed in an array of increasingly creative disguises, watching Eve like a guardian angel.

Protecting her.

It’s the least she can do.

The wound in Villanelle’s arm is not deep. Whoever sent the attacker must not care too much about actually wanting her dead, or they would have sent somebody more skilled. Her assailant had the element of surprise, but his movements were slow and clumsy. Villanelle was able to deflect his first slash with the knife, resulting in the graze to her upper arm, then snatched the blade from his grasp and plunged it into his own neck before he could get a second swing at her. The pain in her arm is not much more than a minor inconvenience, numbed by the pleasure of watching her attacker choke to death on his own blood. It’s not deep enough to require actual medical attention (for which Villanelle is grateful because she hates hospitals almost as much as she dislikes being stabbed) but if she doesn’t clean it and dress it herself it will still leave a permanent scar and Villanelle doesn’t much like those blemishing her body either.

There is one scar that she doesn’t mind, the fading pink line on her abdomen. It used to leave a bitter taste in her mouth when she touched it, particularly after the events in Rome, but Villanelle doesn’t hate it anymore. It reminds her of Eve.

Eve, whose house Villanelle currently stands outside, peering into the gloomy kitchen through the back window. There is a light on inside the house, a yellow glow from another room, and when Villanelle presses her face against the glass for a closer look, she can hear the unmistakable sound of the television.

Her heart thumps against her ribcage at the thrilling possibility that Eve might actually be at home, and she makes quick work of the flimsy lock on the back door.

It’s a small house but it’s definitely a step up from the little box apartment that Eve was living in when Villanelle visited to deliver the talking bear. Villanelle closes the back door behind her silently, then creeps down the hall, catching a glimpse of the back of Eve’s curly hair through the slight crack in the living room door as she passes. She doesn’t let herself linger, but instead treads carefully on the stairs, grateful that the soft carpet below her feet muffles any sound from the heavy black combat boots she donned earlier in the evening as part of her costume.

The bathroom is at the top of the stairs and Villanelle pulls the cord to flick the fluorescent bulb overhead into life, not bothering to close the door fully behind her. She strips out of the top half of her Santa suit, letting the hat fall to the floor but discarding the bloodsoaked jacket in the bathtub. As she inspect the wound on her bicep she realises that most of the blood on her has probably come from the man she killed.

Especially when she catches sight of herself in the mirror because wow, has she really been walking around looking like that?

Blood is spattered across the left side of her face, smeared in some places where she must have accidentally rubbed it in, which only makes it appear worse. The fake beard looks just as bad, dark red soaked into the snow white hair.

Disguising herself a Santa Claus on Christmas Eve to check up on Eve had seemed like a stroke of genius when the idea first came to her, thrilled by the idea that a child might happen to glance out of the window at the right moment and spot her merrily strolling down the street. Seeing her appearance now, Villanelle hopes that no children did actually catch a glimpse of her. She looks like Santa Claus, but only if his sleigh took a detour via hell, and even Villanelle, who has never once had a happy Christmas of her own, is not in the business of ruining the magic of Christmas like that.

There is a medicine cabinet above the sink and Villanelle opens it to rummage around inside. Behind a packet of contraceptive pills and a tube of veruca cream, Villanelle finds what she needs to clean and dress the wound. She picks up a washcloth that hangs over the side of the bath and holds it under the tap until it’s damp with warm water. Villanelle braces herself for the pain, then gently wipes her on cleaning the blood away from the wound. She lets out a hiss at the pain, because the adrenaline of the fight against her assailant earlier in the evening took the edge off the injury when it actually happened, but she doesn’t have that luxury anymore.

As the wound gets cleaner, Villanelle can see that it isn’t actually that bad at all, a two-inch scratch that barely goes deeper than the top layer of skin. It’s slightly worse at one end of the cut, probably where the force of the knife initially hit her, but the tip of the blade has scraped the surface rather than actually being plunged into her arm, which has saved her a lot of pain and inconvenience.

Villanelle doesn’t hear the person come up the stairs and push open the bathroom door until it is too late.

And then it is just a lot of screaming. Villanelle screams and the woman screams and Villanelle really has no choice but to push her against the wall and clamp a palm over the woman’s mouth.

The woman is not Eve, but Villanelle still feels like she might know her. There’s something familiar in her face, even behind the mask of Villanelle’s hand across her mouth, something in the terror in the woman’s eyes that Villanelle knows she’s seen before.

And then-

“Villanelle! That’s my mom!”

* * *

After close to ten minutes of shouting (from Eve) and hysterics (from Eve’s mother), the three of them find themselves downstairs in the poky kitchen, a stony silence hanging over them.

“I’m really sorry, Mrs Park,” Villanelle eventually says, to fill the uncomfortable void. “I didn’t realise you were visiting Eve for Christmas.”

“Oh, and that makes it okay to break into my house?” snaps Eve, shooting Villanelle a glare. “Because you thought it would be just me at home?”

“I was in the area and I needed a first aid kit,” Villanelle replies, gesturing down at the cut on her arm, which has oozed fresh blood since the scuffle upstairs with Mrs Park. “Speaking of, would you mind?”

Eve’s dark eyes flicker between Villanelle’s face and the wound, clearly torn between helping and telling Villanelle to fuck off and do it herself.

“Will you please take off the beard?” Eve asks with a sigh, taking the damp washcloth that Villanelle brought downstairs with her and gesturing for Villanelle to take a seat at the kitchen table. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look fabulous,” counters Villanelle, though she obeys Eve’s request and peels away the blood-soaked beard as she takes a seat. “Where is your Christmas spirit, Eve?”

Ignoring Villanelle’s playful jibe, Eve draws up a second chair and places it directly in front of Villanelle. She sits on it and shuffles closer until her knees are settled in the gap between Villanelle’s own thighs. Eve leans forward and presses the washcloth to the wound with a tenderness that contrasts the displeasure on her face, wiping away the fresh blood around the cut. Villanelle leans into the touch slightly, closing her eyes to bask in the intimacy. She might be imagining it, but the blood isn’t the only thing that disappears. Eve’s irritation seems to diminish too.

Eve’s pinky finger brushes against Villanelle’s arm, perhaps by accident, and goosebumps erupt across Villanelle’s skin.

But then the moment is gone as Eve’s mother, who Villanelle has almost forgotten was still in the room with them, addresses her daughter in Korean that is too fast for Villanelle to even attempt to make sense of.

Whatever it is that’s said, it elicits a reaction from Eve - namely an eye roll and a click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“We’re not dating, mama,” Eve replies in English. “Villanelle is … she’s somebody I know from work.”

Villanelle shoots Mrs Park a friendly smile, then leans closer to Eve and asks, “She thinks I’m your girlfriend?”

Eve hesitates, inspecting Villanelle’s wound to see if it’s still bleeding, then discards the bloody washcloth.

“She said that if I wanted to move on from Niko with a woman, why couldn’t I have chosen a nice Korean lady?” Eve translates.

Villanelle smirks in amusement, then looks up at Mrs Park, who is watching them intently from the other side of the kitchen. The smile slips from Villanelle’s face - she’s never been in a ‘meet the parents’ situation before and can’t help but feel that Mrs Park is looking into her soul and seeing all the destruction that Villanelle has created. She swallows thickly, feeling an inexplicable yet overwhelming desire to make a good impression and, for the first time tonight, regrets the choice of clothing.

_ What  _ must Mrs Park think of her, showing up dressed like this?

It isn’t completely the end of the world. Villanelle has other tricks up her embarrassingly unfashionable sleeve that are sure to impress.

Taking a deep breath as she tries to recall the newest language that she’s been learning, Villanelle starts to speak in broken Korean.

“I like your daughter,” she says, her tongue stumbling over the unpracticed words. “She is beautiful and clever.”

The expression on Eve’s face is priceless.

“You speak Korean?” she asks, eyebrows shooting up across her forehead in a combination of surprise and awe.

“I am learning,” explains Villanelle. “I have an app. My teacher is a little green owl who gets very needy when I forget to practice.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He is a pest, to be honest, but he just wants me to practice a little bit every-”

“No,” Eve interrupts. “Why are you learning Korean?”

“Oh.” Villanelle gives a little shrug, then answers, “Why not? I have a lot of free time now that I’m no longer ki-” 

Villanelle manages to cut herself off mid-word before she says too much, eyeing Eve’s mother warily before she continues.

“-now that I’m out of a job,” she finishes. “Plus, I know you speak it so it didn’t seem like a waste of time.”

Eve frowns at this, and busies herself by reaching for the first aid box sitting on the table so that she can take out a tube of antiseptic cream.

“Walk away and don’t look back,” says Eve, as she unscrews the cap on the tube and squeezes a small blob of cream onto the tip of her finger. “Those were your words.”

“And I meant them,” Villanelle says earnestly. “In fact, if your mother hadn’t come into the bathroom when she did then I would have been in and out without you knowing I was ever here at all.”

“Oh, so it’s my  _ mom’s _ fault that you’re back in my life?”

Eve’s finger smears the cream across the freshly cleaned wound on Villanelle’s arm at the same time as she speaks, punishing Villanelle with the sting of chemicals against broken skin.

Villanelle opens her mouth to defend herself, but Mrs Park speaks up before she can respond.

“Have you eaten, Villanelle?” Mrs Park asks in English. “I can heat up some soup for you.”

“I ate earlier,” says Villanelle, “but I’m always hungry. Thank you.”

Mrs Park looks pleased with that answer and busies herself on the other side of the kitchen with reheating some leftovers from a container in the fridge, while Eve finishes applying the cream to Villanelle’s wound and puts down the tube.

“Do I get an explanation?” Eve asks, locating a strip of gauze and some medical tape from the first aid box.

“About what?”

“About why you broke into my house on Christmas Eve dressed as Santa Claus’ demonic alter ego?”

Villanelle watches as Eve carefully applies a bandage to the wound, trying to decide in her head how much of the truth she wants to share. She could probably come up with a dozen believable explanations for the outfit and the cut on her arm, but Eve must be able to tell that not all the blood on Villanelle’s person can possibly have come from such a small wound.

“I was keeping an eye on you,” Villanelle answers truthfully. “I’ve ruined your life enough already so it feels like my responsibility to check in on you every so often to make sure you’re still safe. And I always keep my distance and use disguises -” Villanelle gestures down at what remains of her costume, “- because I knew that you wouldn’t be able to move on and start your new life if you knew I was still around.”

Eve considers this explanation as she finished covering the wound, then seems to hum in acceptance of it being the truth.

“And this?” she asks, pointing at the bandaged cut.

“A Christmas present from the Twelve,” says Villanelle, lowering her voice to a volume that Eve’s mother won’t be able to eavesdrop on. “They sometimes send people after me. I don’t think they actually want me dead, but it’s as if they are reminding me that they are always watching.”

Eve nods in understanding, before she dares to ask, “So the person who did this…?”

She trails off, eyes widening in expectation of Villanelle giving an explanation.

“... is no longer a concern,” finishes Villanelle. 

Based on the little crease between Eve’s eyebrows as her gaze flicks from Villanelle’s face to the crimson-stained beard on the table, Eve seems to understand, though she makes no comment.

Instead, after a few moments of thoughtful silence, Eve says, “You didn’t ruin my life. I ruined it myself. Actually, ‘ruined’ is the wrong word. I woke up. Any damage was entirely my own doing.”

“Did I wake you up?” Villanelle asks.

Eve lets out a noise that is half sigh and half laugh.

“Yes. You woke me up.”

“Sorry,” says Villanelle, grimacing apologetically.

“Don’t apologise,” says Eve. “You can’t stay asleep forever.”

Eve’s mother approaches the table with two steaming bowls of soup, setting the first in front of Villanelle and the second in front of Eve.

“Mom, I already…”

Mrs Park cuts Eve off in rapid Korean, and though Villanelle hasn’t been learning the language for long enough to fully understand, the tone of her voice and the resulting slump of Eve’s shoulders is enough for Villanelle to know that Eve is being scolded.

“I’m going to watch television in the other room,” says Mrs Park, switching back to English for Villanelle’s benefit. She gives Villanelle a stern look and jabs a finger at her as she says, “You make sure Eve eats enough. There is more on the stove if you want it.”

“I’ll make sure she eats every last bit,” Villanelle promises.

Mrs Park’s eyes flicker back and forth between Villanelle and Eve, before she makes her exit from the kitchen.

When the sounds of the television starts from the other room, Eve begins to talk again.

“I’m sorry about her,” Eve apologises. “She can be a little overbearing.”

“She’s just being nice,” says Villanelle. She looks down at her bowl of beef noodle soup, which looks just as mouthwateringly delicious as it smells, then eyes the utensils that she has been given - chopsticks  _ and _ a spoon - with curiosity. “How do I-?”

“Just use the spoon,” Eve says. “She won’t mind.”

Villanelle does as instructed, picking up the spoon and using it to scoop up a piece of beef, which she lifts to her mouth. It’s cooked to perfection, piping hot and a little spicy, tender enough that it almost melts away entirely when it touches Villanelle’s tongue.

“This is amazing,“ Villanelle hums appreciatively before she has even swallowed her mouthful. “Did your mother make this?“

Eve nods as she tucks into her own bowl, using the chopsticks to lift a careful balance of beef and vegetables onto the spoon, before bringing it to her mouth.

“She is an excellent cook,“ Villanelle says, as she continues to eat. “And I don’t think she is overbearing. She is caring for you. Nurturing you. That’s what mothers are supposed to do.“

Villanelle thinks of her own mother, who didn’t have a single nurturing bone in her body.

Eve seems to sense what Villanelle is thinking about, or perhaps the sadness is radiating from her body in the most obvious way.

“Do you want to talk about it?“ Eve tentatively asks.

“No – I don’t –” Villanelle lets out a sigh, then continues by saying, “ she is no longer a concern.”

Eve is confused for just a fraction of a second before her eyes widen, betraying her surprise, but then she manages to compose herself again.

“Like the man who did this?” she asks, gesturing with the chopsticks in her hand at the bandaged cut on Villanelle’s arm.

Grateful that Eve doesn’t actually say the real truth aloud, Villanelle nods and confirms, “Just like him.”

“ I… I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,“ says Villanelle.

It feels good to share this with Eve but that last thing she wants is a pity. She can feel Eve’s eyes watching her carefully and decides to busy herself with mimicking the way that Eve eats, attempting to use a combination of the chopsticks and the spoon to feed herself. It’s much easier now to pretend that Eve is judging her for incorrect chopstick use than for killing her mother.

“That can’t have been an easy thing to go through,” Eve eventually says.

“It wasn’t,” Villanelle agreed. “I went to Russia not long after…” She trails off, remembering flailing limbs and the sudden press of impossibly soft lips, then continues, “Not long after your birthday. I found my family, and then I remembered what a disappointment they are.”

“Are they all…?” Eve asks, eyebrows furrowed together in a concerned frown.

“No,” Villanelle answers, shaking her head vehemently. “I have two little brothers. Well, one is actually quite a big little brother now, but the other … Borka is still so young. She hadn’t completely broken him yet but she would have done if I didn't step in. And he’s so sweet and I didn’t want him to end up like me, so … you know.”

“He’s lucky to have you looking out for him,” Eve says.

“I sent him some stuff for Christmas. I bought him some really cool headphones so he can listen to Elton John.”

“Elton John?” Eve asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Borka’s favourite,” explains Villanelle. “I got him a PlayStation and a pair of brand new trainers too. I really don’t know what twelve year old boys like but I didn’t want him to have nothing. And I like buying gifts for people.”

“Did you buy me a gift?”

The question takes Villanelle by surprise and it’s poorly timed too, asked just as she lifts a spoonful of hot soup to her mouth. She swallows at just the wrong time and ends up choking, a struggle that is only intensified by the fact that Villanelle tries her best not to splutter and spray soup across the table.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Eve asks in concern. She pushes her chair back and stands up, abandoning her own food as she hurries across to the sink. “Let me get you some water.”

As Eve returns with a glass of cold water from the tap, which Villanelle gulps down gratefully, the fit of choking must have been audible from elsewhere in the house because Mrs Park appears in the doorway, a concerned frown etched on her face.

“You don’t like my food?”

“I love your food, Mrs Park,” Villanelle manages to say once she has finally regained her composure, though her voice remains hoarse from the incident. “I just tried to eat too much of it at once.”

“Eat slowly,” Mrs Park advises her wisely. “Food is meant to be savoured. You will enjoy it more.”

Villanelle makes a show of her next mouthful, using the chopsticks slowly and deliberately in an attempt to win Mrs Park’s favour with her skills, then hums loudly in satisfaction to show her appreciation.

“Delicious,” she announces, her cheeks still full of food as she chews.

Below the table, Eve’s foot connects with Villanelle’s shin. Villanelle manages not to make a noise, but instead frowns at Eve, who shakes her head subtly and mouths for Villanelle to stop it.

Mrs Park must be satisfied because she addresses Eve now instead.

“Oh, Eve, I will bring some blankets down for your guest.” She looks back at Villanelle and says, “You will have to sleep on the floor because Eve only has a small house. That won’t be a problem, will it? You are still young.”

“Ma, Villanelle isn’t staying…”

Mrs Park cuts Eve off, speaking in rapid Korean again. Villanelle watches intently, as if she is listening and following along, though she can only pick out odd bits, and never enough to make actual sense of what is being said.

Eve lets out a sigh when her mother stops talking and her eyes flick briefly across to Villanelle, then back again, before she says, “Villanelle probably has other plans for Christmas…”

“I don’t,” interjects Villanelle. “I would love to stay. Thank you for being so hospitable, Mrs Park.”

The first hint of what Villanelle thinks might be a smile passes across Mrs Park’s lips.

“I will sort that for you now,” she says to Villanelle. “And Eve will lend you some pyjamas.”

“Oh, will I?” Eve mutters grumpily under her breath, as Mrs Park leaves the kitchen once more.

“I’m sorry,” Villanelle apologies, unsure whether Eve’s slightly sour mood is directed towards her mother or Villanelle, or perhaps a combination of the two. “It would be rude to turn down an invitation when your mother is being such a great host. And I am many things, Eve, but not rude.”

Eve continues to eat, waiting until she has swallowed her mouthful before she says, “I know, it’s just that I told my mom I didn’t want to make a big deal out of Christmas and she’s already been testing me, and then you showed and she has an excuse to try to force me to be festive and…” Eve lets out a sigh. “It’s been a pretty shit year, to be honest, and I don’t really feel like pretending to be happy just because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Besides, I’m not even religious. Christmas is just another day.”

Villanelle nods along as she listens, feeling partially guilty for Eve’s shit year, because maybe if she still had a husband and a best friend and even the damn chicken, she would feel slightly different about the holidays.

“You, Eve,” Villanelle says, letting her mouth crack open into a smile, “are what they call a grinch.”

Eve half-laughs under her breath and concedes, “You got me.” She pauses to take another mouthful of soup, then asks, “Do you usually celebrate Christmas?”

“Not really,” Villanelle answers with a shrug. “I am usually working.”

“On Christmas?”

“It’s always an easy job,” Villanelle explains. An easy job, a  _ boring _ job - Villanelle is almost glad that her ties with the Twelve have been severed so that she doesn’t need to work tomorrow. “People do not expect to be killed on Christmas Day.”

“And if you’re not working?”

“Then I usually treat myself to dinner and buy myself some nice presents. Not so different to every other day of the year, really.” Villanelle pauses for thought and hums around the piece of half-chewed beef caught in the hollow of her cheek, then smiles to herself as she recalls, “One year I bought myself a very expensive vibrator. That was a good year.”

Eve snorts softly, and though her cheeks don’t really pinken with embarrassment, Villanelle can still tell that Eve is slightly flustered by Villanelle’s candidness. Villanelle is reminded of a conversation that could have been a lifetime ago, a confession about masturbation shortly before the wrong kind of penetration and blood, so much blood, and did that really all happen just earlier this year?

Eve is right. This really has been a shit year. A year of knives pressed into stomachs and gunshots across an empty ruin and the acrid smell of a burning farmhouse behind her and pain, physical pain and emotional pain but so  _ much _ of it and Eve, Eve hunting her and stabbing her and kissing her and locking gazes in the mirror of a completely unremarkable hospital bathroom. It has been a shit year but it’s the year that has introduced her to the best and worst thing to ever happen to her, to the woman whose mother has just invited Villanelle to stay for Christmas like she’s part of the family.

Villanelle has never belonged to a family before.

And though Villanelle and family are two things that do not go together, she quite likes it.

“Niko and I used to go away at Christmas,” Eve tells Villanelle, as they both continue to eat. “To Poland, mostly, to visit his family. It’s my first Christmas without him, hence why my mom is staying with me.”

“Do you miss him?” Villanelle dares to ask.

Eve pauses to think for a few seconds before she shakes her head and answers, “Not as much as I probably should. I think I miss the idea of being normal more than I miss him.”

“You could never be normal, Eve.”

Eve’s features are soft and relaxed, a complete contrast to the explosive ball of rage she was earlier in the night when she found Villanelle pinning her mother to the bathroom wall, with just a hint of sadness behind her dark eyes.

“I know that now.”

* * *

Dressed in a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms that are slightly too short in the leg and an oversized t-shirt that smells distinctly of Eve, Villanelle inspects her sleeping arrangements for the night. Mrs Park has provided her with a fleece blanket and a spare pillow, and there is at least a plush rug covering part of the living room floor that should provide a modicum of comfort against the hard floor beneath, so it’s not awful.

Not the queen sized bed that Villanelle had been planning on spending the night in, but she has also slept in far worse places.

Villanelle’s eyes fall on the couch against one wall. It’s small, only a two-seater, so she would have to lie on her side and tuck her knees up against her chest in order to fit her entire body on it, but the cushions would definitely provide more comfort than a rug.

The door to the living room opens just as Villanelle is about to test that theory, and Eve enters dressed for bed, wandering over to the couch and removing a few of the cushions. Villanelle is confused for a few seconds and watches dumbfoundedly with a pillow clutched to her chest, until Eve reaches down into the space between the arm of the sofa and the wall to pull out a rolled-up duvet that Villanelle hadn’t noticed before, and now she realises that she can’t sleep on the couch because it’s where Eve intends to sleep.

“Wait, you’re sleeping down here too?”

“I turned the second bedroom into a study so I only have one proper bed,” Eve explains. “And my mom is in her seventies so I wasn’t going to let her take the couch. Besides, it’s not so bad. It folds out into a bed.”

Eve demonstrates by removing the rest of the cushions from the couch to reveal a mechanism concealed inside the seat. She pulls it and it unfolds, a wire frame that extends and opens out into a bed with a thin mattress. Eve takes the second set of bedding and drapes it across the newly formed bed, before she replaces some of the previously discarded cushions to create a makeshift headboard.

Villanelle’s eyes widen as she watches the entire thing, impressed for just a split second until she realises that the sofa-bed now extends out into much of the rug-covered floor space she had previously eyed up for herself.

“Room for two?” she asks, teeth digging into her lower lip as she raises an optimistic eyebrow at Eve.

“With my mom upstairs?” Eve scoffs. “Dream on.”

“Eve, you’re a grown woman,” Villanelle points out. “Surely it is not so scandalous for you to share a bed with another person? We can build a pillow wall down the middle of the bed if you don’t want your mother to think I’m corrupting you.”

“You’ve corrupted me enough already, I think,” Eve mutters under her breath, as she straightens out the bedding, then peels back the covers and climbs in. 

“Is that a yes?”

Eve turns her head to look at Villanelle, then says, “Nice try. You’re on the floor. I bet you’ve slept on worse.”

“That’s true,” Villanelle admits, dropping down onto the floor beside the sofa-bed and plumping up the pillow behind her head to give herself the bare minimum of comfort, before she drapes the blanket over her lithe frame for warmth. “I once had my mattress confiscated in prison after the wardens caught me fucking one of the other inmates in my cell. Two months sleeping on just the frame - can you believe it?”

“See? The floor isn’t so bad.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Villanelle says, rolling onto her side to see if it’s any less uncomfortable and quickly discovering that it is not. “But it’s fine. If I have to do this to win your mother over, then so be it.”

Eve reaches an arm out to flick the light switch on the wall just above the sofa, plunging the room into a darkness that is broken only by the faint orange glow of street lamps through the blinds.

“She likes you, you know,” Eve’s voice cuts through the darkness.

“Your mother?”

Eve confirms with a soft hum, then elaborates by saying, “She knew Niko for almost four months before she started speaking English around him. It used to drive him mad.”

“Well, of course I’m more likeable than _him._ My facial hair was better too.”

Eve snorts at this, but chooses not to say anything. As Villanelle stares at the shadowy shape of the bed slowly becoming clearer as her eyes adjust to the darkness, she wonders if Eve is thinking about Niko. She expects to feel some jealousy at the thought of Niko still occupying some space in Eve’s mind, but she feels only relief that he is out of the picture. Whether Eve is chasing Villanelle or walking away from her, Villanelle is glad that she is no longer being held back by that man. 

Villanelle rolls over again as she desperately tries to find a position she’ll be able to sleep in.

“You know, Eve,” Villanelle says, settling on her back once more and stretching out her legs beneath the blanket that covers her, “if I end up putting my back out by sleeping on this floor…”

“Oh, just shut up and get in the bed.”

Villanelle sits up and peers through the darkness at the silhouette of Eve’s body on the bed.

“Really?”

“Quick, before I change my mind.”

Villanelle tried not to seem too eager, sitting up and then pushing herself off the floor until she is standing beside the bed. Eve shuffles across to the far side of the bed, pulling the duvet with her, leaving space for Villanelle to get on the mattress beside her.

“No touching, okay?” Eve says, rolling onto her side and propping her body up on her elbow as she watches Villanelle toss her pillow into the space on the mattress. “And no straying into my side of the bed. And use your own blanket - no stealing mine.”

“Anything else?” Villanelle asks, arching an eyebrow, though Eve may not be able to see her expression clearly in the dark.

“You don’t snore, do you?”

“Of course not!” Villanelle insists, outraged by the suggestion. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

Villanelle climbs onto the mattress beside Eve, careful to stay on her own side of the bed, and drapes the blanket over her body once more. It’s still not luxurious, but it’s a significant step up from sleeping on the floor and Villanelle is glad that Eve has seen some sense and allowed Villanelle to join her on the bed.

This may well be the longest they’ve spent in each other’s company since they first met, longer even than the painfully uncomfortable three hours they spent sitting in stony silence in the back of her car that took them to the Forest of Dean to confront the Ghost.

“So what happens now?” Villanelle asks, staring up at the ceiling above her, very aware of the fact that Eve is lying just next to her.

“We go to sleep?” suggests Eve, and though Villanelle cannot see Eve’s face in the darkness, she can just picture the way that Eve must be rolling her eyes, as if Villanelle has asked the stupidest question ever.

“No, not  _ right  _ now. I mean, like, after tomorrow. We don’t seem to be very good at staying away from each other.”

“No, we really don’t,” Eve agrees. “The Twelve are still watching you, right?”

“Yes, and probably you too.”

“Do you think they’ll ever stop?”

Villanelle remembers the splatter of blood hitting her bearded face earlier in the evening, and frowns.

“Probably not,” she admits to Eve. “Unless we stop being interesting to them.”

“So this is it?” Eve asks, with a hint of resignation in her voice. “We keep living ordinary lives and celebrating Christmases with my mother?”

“Already inviting me for next year?” Villanelle asks, letting out a small laugh. “That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it? What if I make other plans?”

“Be my guest,” comes Eve’s nonchalant reply.

Villanelle rolls onto her side, pulling the blanket over her shoulder, and stares at Eve’s silhouette, at the cloud of amazing hair splayed out across the pillow and the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

“I can feel you watching me,” Eve eventually says. 

“I like to sleep on my side,” Villanelle replies. “You happen to be in my line of sight.”

Eve turns, staying on her own side of the bed but lying on her side too so that they’re facing each other. It’s reminiscent of the time in Villanelle’s Parisian apartment, of Eve asking if she could stay and Villanelle leaning in for a kiss, only to be met by the sharp tip of a blade pressed into her abdomen.

“Remember the last time we were on a bed together like this?” Villanelle says into the space between their faces, her gaze flicking between each of Eve’s eyes, staring wide in the darkness right back at Villanelle.

Eve lets out a little noise, half huff and half laugh, before she answers, “I’d rather not.”

It would be so easy to lean closer, to replicate what happened last time, to reach out and sweep Eve’s curls out of her face before going for the kiss. Villanelle wants,  _ god _ does she want. It hurts to want Eve this much but the pain is nothing to what she will feel if she gets another rejection. Whoever says that it is better to have loved and lost than to have never lived at all has clearly never met a woman as magnificently complex as Eve. Villanelle would rather spend the rest of her years, however many of those there may be, clinging onto the tiniest glimmer of hope than to have that crushed and be left with nothing.

After all, without Eve, what else does Villanelle have? Money, sure, and expensive clothes. An apartment in every major European city, if she so wanted. Women tumbling into her bed with a click of her fingers. All things that would have made Villanelle very happy during a pre-Eve era. All things that fail to keep her interest now.

Perhaps that is why walking away would never have worked.

The scar on her stomach, though old now and starting to fade, throbs, perhaps just in her imagination.

“I’ve forgiven you,” Villanelle says.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” Eve retorts.

“Forgiven me for what?”

“Everything.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

It might be the first time that Villanelle has said those words and meant them. The apology hangs between them, thick in the air, an almost suffocating reminder of how much damage they’ve caused each other.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the night on the bridge,” Eve confesses, her voice a whisper that cuts through the fog and hits Villanelle right in the chest.

God, how she aches for Eve. To hold her, to touch her, to  _ devour _ her. But no, the rules had been clear. No touching. Stay on this side of the bed. And Villanelle really doesn’t want to end up back on the floor.

But-

“Eve,” she says, letting out a soft groan, “you really can’t say stuff like that after asking me to stay on this side of the bed.”

“I know, but…”

Eve trails off, and her hand reaches out, crossing the invisible barrier separating their halves of the bed, though her palm stops a few inches from Villanelle’s face, hovering, waiting.

“But this has felt inevitable since your mother invited me to stay for Christmas?” asks Villanelle, fighting the urge to lift her head slightly to close the last of the gap between Eve’s hand and her cheek.

“It’s felt inevitable since we walked away from each other,” counters Eve. “It’s like there’s a string of elastic between us and every time we get too far away from each other, we get pulled back together.”

Villanelle lifts her hand and gently touches Eve’s, then brings it down so that she’s cupping Villanelle’s jaw. Eve’s touch is warm, her fingers soft, and Villanelle lets out a gasp. It’s been a long time since she’s been touched by another woman, even just like this. Eve has ruined her appetite for random hookups, no longer bother about women who will never be as beautiful nor as interesting as Eve.

“I don’t want to walk away again,” Villanelle confesses. “I don’t want to pretend that I’m okay to carry on like you don’t exist.”

Eve’s thumb sweeps across Villanelle’s cheek, almost caressing the skin.

“Then don’t.”

With her other hand, Eve peels back the edge of her duvet and drags it over to Villanelle, an invitation to shuffle closer and join her. It’s an olive branch, the first step towards each other instead of away.

The first rule broken.

“Hold me,” Eve says.

She withdraws her hand and Villanelle momentarily mourns its loss, until Eve rolls over onto her other side and shuffles back towards Villanelle’s body. With the other rules crumbling too, Villanelle accepts the invitation, pulling the covers across herself too and moving closer. Eve’s body fits perfectly against her own and Villanelle drapes an arm around Eve’s middle. 

“What happened to the ‘no touching’ rule?” Villanelle asks in a low voice, nuzzling her face into the back of Eve’s curly hair.

“Shut up,” grumbles Eve, though her hand finds Villanelle’s splayed across her stomach and intertwined their fingers. “This doesn’t count.”

Villanelle smiles to herself and squeezes Eve’s fingers.

“Merry Christmas, Eve.”

A moment of silence. And then–

“Merry Christmas, Villanelle.”

**Author's Note:**

> on twitter @almostafantasia if you want to say hi


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